A Little Problem
by Leda74
Summary: A visit to the Mended Drum results in some unwelcome attentions for Donna and a whole lot of trouble for the Doctor. Discworld crossover.
1. Chapter 1

It was a fairly quiet night in the Mended Drum.

Hibiscus Dunelm sighed gently and dropped an ear and two fingers into the box marked 'LoST PROperT'; there was very little chance that they'd be reclaimed by their owners, although he could always dispose of them in the weekly raffle.

He brushed his hands and turned to the only figure currently propping up the bar.

"What'll it be, er...sir?" he said, ever so slightly unsure of himself for no immediately identifiable reason.

ANYTHING, said the figure. Hibiscus inserted a finger into his ear and wiggled it thoughtfully, but there was no mistake; the word hadn't entered his head by that route. Still, an order was an order. He filled a mug from a random barrel and plonked it down in front of the customer. It was withdrawn, drained and replaced in the exact same spot.

SAME AGAIN, said the voice.

"So," said Hibiscus brightly as he filled the mug with a second draught of foul beer, "what brings you in here...sir?"

I'M WAITING, said the figure.

"Waiting for what?" he asked. The mug was taken, drained and replaced.

EVERYTHING, said the figure. SAME AGAIN.

Hibiscus was refilling the mug from yet another random barrel when the door clattered back and a couple walked in. He eyed them warily; the man was a lanky streak in an oddly cut blue suit, and the woman a well-rounded redhead in roughly half the amount of dress required for decency's sake. Setting the brimming mug back down on the bar, he edged his way out and sidled closer, listening to their conversation on the pretext of collecting empties.

He heard little that made any sense to him; this was in and of itself not an unusual occurrence in the Drum, but the gibberish tended to have a certain aggressive/amicable/morose tendency. What he was hearing was just gibberish, plain and simple. Words like 'TARDIS', 'transdimensional' and 'timeline' flowed right over his head.

Nevertheless, Hibiscus hadn't survived fourteen years of victualling in a city like Ankh-Morpork without developing some keenly honed senses, all of which were telling him that these two were brewing up a large quantity of trouble. He returned to the back bar and - with a surprisingly nonchalant turn of speed - began taking down the more expensive bottles.

* * *

"So," said Donna, carefully, "you're telling me this world isn't real?"

"Of course it's real," said the Doctor, and prodded the table-top by way of illustration. "Look - solid as a rock. It's real, but it's fictional. Understand?"

"No," said Donna, who had been brought up to tell the unvarnished truth, "but I'll play along for a while. So what's this place?"

The Doctor grinned hugely and flung out a dramatic arm.

"This is the legendary Mended Drum, the finest pub in Ankh-Morpork," he declared, happily. "Well, when I say 'finest', I mean 'most typical', which I admit may not mean what you think it means. Um."

Donna's lip curled as she inhaled.

"Mings a bit in 'ere," she said. The Doctor looked profoundly shocked.

"_Mings_?" he repeated, outraged. "That's ambience!"

Donna nodded thoughtfully, and glanced around the room one more time, taking in the scarred plaster, battered furniture, sticky tables, crusted chandelier and damp, boggy floor.

"Sorry," she said, at last. "I didn't know that ambience smells like wee."

The Doctor smirked.

"You're a hard woman, Donna Noble," he said.

"Oh, but I'm _worth_ it," she told him, batting her eyelashes.

"I'll get us a drink," said the Doctor, and leapt up from the table. There was a very faint squelching noise, and while his smile stayed right where it was, the rest of his face crept away from it. "Er," he went on, without moving a single muscle, "what have I stepped in?"

Donna bent and looked under the table. She coughed discreetly, and straightened up again.

"Some ambience," she told him.

Donna propped her elbows on the table as the Doctor headed for the bar, dragging one foot through the straw in a vain attempt to clean his shoe.

Her reverie was interrupted as a rat clambered onto the table. Acting on pure reflex, she grabbed a bottle from the next table and swung it double-handed, belting the creature off the table and into the thick straw on the floor. She was just about to climb onto her chair in disgust when she heard a small voice drifting up from beneath the table.

"Ach," it said, blearily, "I like a girl wi' spirit."

Curiosity overtook the shock and revulsion, and she stood up and peered over the far edge of the table. There was a grubby little man in rat-skin trousers lying prone in a heap of filth, a large, happy grin plastered over his face. Donna goggled and said nothing.

"Ye've a mean right arm on ye, lassie," he said, struggling into a sitting position. "Can I buy yer a wee dram?"

Aside from the fact that he was six inches high - and it had to be said that as asides went, that one was a biggie - Donna was suddenly overcome with a very familiar feeling. A routine response came to her aid.

"Actually, I'm sort of with someone," she said, weakly, sitting back down. The little man scrambled up the table leg and faced her down, one eyebrow curled.

"Sorta?" he said, inquiringly. "Ye've a swain?"

His accent was so thick that she struggled for a second to decipher what he'd said; that done, she laughed nervously and shook her head.

"Well, no, we're not a couple," she admitted. The little man beamed.

"Then ye'll drink wi' me," he said, happily, and extended a tiny hand. "Me name's Wee Mad Arthur, but ye can call me 'Arthur'," he told her, magnanimously. Donna reached out gingerly; he grasped her hand and kissed one fingernail decorously. His grip was surprisingly strong.

"My name's Donna," she said, cringing inside, and hoping that he'd remember to let go of her finger at some point. She tugged gently, trying to make the point.

"'tis a verrrra pretty name," said Arthur, still hanging onto her hand. She tugged a little more firmly, but this only resulted in her lifting him off the table, where he dangled blithely in front of her horrified gaze.

A hand entered her peripheral vision and set two mugs down on the table with a loud bang. Donna couldn't seem to move her head; she was transfixed by the hanging, lovestruck gnome.

"Oh, _no_," said the Doctor, with a heartsick groan. "Not _you_. Anyone but _you_..."


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur let go of Donna's finger, hit the tabletop and ricocheted, landing on the Doctor's lapel and grabbing a healthy handful of tie.

"Sez you?" he said, glowering. "Me an' the lady would like tae be left alone, ye tall scunner..." This said, he drew a small but nevertheless very _pointy_ crossbow and aimed it straight up the Doctor's nose.

Donna could see the Doctor's hand crawling towards his inside pocket and, presumably, the sonic screwdriver. Some hitherto unregarded sixth sense sketched out an image of the immediate future featuring such time-honoured questions as 'Can your mother sew?' and 'D'you like hospital food?', so she leapt to her feet and pried the gnome's fingers loose, laughing nervously.

"It's okay, Arthur," she said, her voice strained, as she put him back down by the beers. "This is a friend of mine. He was just getting us some drinks, all right?"

Arthur holstered the crossbow and grinned up at the Doctor.

"Oh aye? Well, I'm obliged tae yer, pal," he said, and unshipped a grapnel from his belt. He swung it up over the edge of the mug, shinned up the rope, and then plopped into the beer. Donna and the Doctor eyeballed one another for several seconds as a lazy stream of bubbles broke the surface.

"He's in my drink," said the Doctor.

"I can see that," said Donna.

"Actually _in_ my drink," repeated the Doctor.

"That he is," agreed Donna, not taking her eyes off the gently popping bubbles.

"There's a _gnome_ in my _drink_," said the Doctor.

"Well don't shout about it, or everyone'll want one," said Donna.

The level of liquid dropped abruptly with a startling sucking noise, and the mug tipped over and disgorged a soaking wet Arthur, who loosed a belch much too loud and _far_ too long for such a little stomach. He smacked his lips and opened his eyes blearily.

"'s a _guid _year. Aye, eh..." he began, and tried to focus. "I'll tek y' to the cleaners, you and yer twin brother..." he said, and hiccupped. Then he hiccupped again, beamed happily and keeled over into a handy puddle of beer. The Doctor, recognising an opportunity when he saw one, picked up the empty mug and upended it over the recumbent gnome. After a few seconds, the echoing strains of a fortunately unintelligible song issued from beneath it.

"Perhaps we should be getting back," said the Doctor, watching the mug carefully. Donna planted one hand on her hip.

"What," she said, "just when it's getting good?" She observed his expression, and subsided. "Oh, all _right_ then. Honestly. You're no fun..."

Hibiscus watched them leave from behind the bar, spat idly into a mug and then turned back to his customer.

"You see some things in this job, and no mistake," he said. The customer turned around briefly, and then returned his attention to the row of empty glasses on the bar in front of him. He gave the impression of counting. Hibiscus, feeling vaguely slighted, turned his attention to wiping another mug.

"Strange man," he ventured.

WE'VE MET, said the customer, without looking up from his deliberation.

"Oh?" said Hibiscus, brightly and more than a little speculatively. "Friend of yours, is he?"

I DIDN'T SAY THAT.

He seemed to finish whatever it was he'd been doing, and then straightened up. He was a very tall figure, so this took quite some time. Hibiscus sidestepped the resulting shadow and coughed nervously.

"One more for the road...?" he said, hopefully.

* * *

"You're jealous," said Donna, as they made their way back to the Brass Bridge, where the Doctor had parked the TARDIS.

She had admittedly been hoping to provoke a reaction, so it was with some satisfaction that she watched him break stride and hunch his shoulders.

"I am _not_," he said, finally meeting her gaze. "Arthur's a revolting little object, that's all. Besides, I have a moral objection to getting headbutted in the ankle, and that was starting to look likely."

He half turned, and took in their location for the first time. The gothic bulk of the Assassins' Guild loomed over them. It was a building superbly constructed for looming; there was even a handy fog coming in off the river for it to loom out of. Even the letterbox loomed slightly. The Doctor balked.

"Okay," he said, a shade maniacally, "Moving on?"

Eight hippos lined the Brass Bridge; Donna paused in the lee of one magnificent buttock and examined a random act of graffiti. After a while, she turned her head sideways and her eyes widened. The Doctor peered over her shoulder.

"Ah. Idealistic rather than realistic," he observed. Donna nodded.

"I hope so," she said, still staring. "Otherwise he'll have trouble walking." She hesitated, tore her eyes away from the doodle and regrouped. "What's with the hippos, anyway?"

"They're the heraldic symbol of Ankh-Morpork," said the Doctor, patting the statue fondly. "There's an old legend that says that if anything ever threatens the city, they'll run away."

"Is it true?"

"Well, they're still here, aren't they?" he said, and winked. "Anyway, shall we be making tracks?"

She turned and followed the Doctor back to the TARDIS; as he stepped through the door, however, he came to such an abrupt halt that she walked right into the back of him. Grumbling, she sidestepped, then stopped dead and eyeballed the control room.

"Well," she said, at last. "I think I can safely say this isn't how we left it..."

The control room was full of flowers, balloons, boxes of chocolates and teddy bears; although the description, while factually accurate, was hardly up to the task.

There were a lot of hearts in evidence. Shiny red heart balloons bobbed gently, tethered to every stanchion and bar. There were ziggurats of chocolate boxes stacked here, there and everywhere; Donna spotted several heart-shaped ones. Every other teddy bear was sporting a large fluffy heart and an expression of cross-eyed hopefulness. Red roses spilled out of every single nook and crevice and littered the floor.

Finally, almost as if it were a minor detail, Donna saw Wee Mad Arthur, snoring away gently on top of a fallen bear.

The Doctor finally found his voice.

"What...the..._buggery_?" he said, and then focused on the sleeping gnome. His eyes narrowed perilously.

"How'd he get in here?" whispered Donna. She glanced sideways, and saw the Doctor's lips thinning as well.

"I don't know," he said, slowly, reaching beneath a nearby console, "but I know how he's going out."

"How?"

"_Very quickly_."


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur's reflexes were finely tuned. He snorted once, snapped his eyes open and eyeballed the cricket bat in the Doctor's hands. He then leapt three feet in the air and hit the ground running; the Doctor took off after him, already swinging the bat. Donna ducked as the air was suddenly filled with flying rose petals.

She heard a long, drawn-out cry of "_Criiiiiiivenssssss...!_" as Arthur rounded the corner and dived head-first into a pile of soft centres. The Doctor was hot on his heels, and swung the bat overarm, whacking it into the mountain of chocolates like a man possessed.

"I know you're in there!" he snarled, gobbets of ballistic caramel flying past his head. Donna, never one to turn down the prospect of a show, grabbed another box of sweets and sat down to enjoy the entertainment.

Arthur stuck his head up for a second like the opening round of Whack-A-Mole. The Doctor, now incensed beyond all reason, dropped the bat and plunged into the chocolates up to his armpits. He rummaged furiously for several seconds and then yelped, pulling one hand out to see that Arthur had sunk his teeth into a convenient thumb.

"Good on you, Arthur!" cried Donna, now well into the spirit of things. The Doctor shot her a glance filled with undiluted fury, then drew back his arm and let fly. Arthur described a rising arc through the air and landed on the far side of a huddle of teddy bears.

Whether there was a trampoline on the other side of the control room, Donna wasn't sure. Either way, Arthur came back on a flat return trajectory, forehead armed and ready. The Doctor double-took, ducked wildly and straightened up just as the gnome hit the far wall with a faint "ooof", and stuck there.

"Howzat!" cried the Doctor, grabbing the bat and taking careful aim. This hesitation was his undoing, however; Arthur let go of the wall, dropped and rolled and came up armed for leg. Grabbing a fistful of trouser in each hand, he nutted the Doctor square in the kneecap.

Even the TARDIS winced at the resulting _crrrrack_.

Arthur had enough sense to drop and run for it. The Doctor yelled and whacked the bat down, missing the gnome by a whisker. Arthur paused, bent over, mooned the Doctor in a very small but very effective way, blew Donna a kiss and hared out of the door. The Doctor growled and gave chase. Donna shrugged, swallowed the last hazelnut whirl and then ran after the pair of them.

The gnome was heading up Lower Broadway with his legs ablur. The Doctor was gaining, although not as fast as he'd have liked; Arthur's legs, while lacking in length, seemed more than fairly equipped when it came to speed.

When they reached Pseudopolis Yard, the Doctor took a full length swan dive and landed on his fleeing quarry, hands closing in triumph. Grinning breathlessly, he rolled over onto his side and opened his fist to reveal a complete absence of Arthur. He had just enough time for a few seconds' blessed puzzlement before his view was eclipsed by a rapidly descending head.

"Argh," said the Doctor, amazingly quietly given the circumstances. Arthur took a flying leap from the top of his head and disappeared, pausing only to deliver the obligatory parting kick to the ribs; the Doctor found out, through this incredibly practical lesson, that just because a foot is small, it doesn't mean it hurts any less.

When the pretty dancing stars finally consented to pack it all in and go away, the Doctor's slowly clearing vision revealed two pairs of well-worn boots at ominously close range.

"Hello, hello, hello," said a voice, from high above and far away. "What's all this then?"

"It's some bloke getting a good shoeing, Fred," said another voice. Inside his head, the Doctor cringed with recognition: Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs. It just had to be.

"I can _see_ that, Nobby," said the first voice, with badly tried patience. "I was just trying to enter into the spirit of the thing, all right?"

"By asking funny questions?"

"Nobby?"

"Yes, Fred?"

"Just shut up, will you? Now then, sir," said the first voice, as the Doctor staggered to his feet on the third attempt, "why don't you just come along with us for a nice little chat about what just happened?"

The Doctor blinked several times until the two figures swam into focus. In the case of the second, his eyes blanched and tried to go out of focus again; Corporal 'Nobby' Nobbs was not a sight to be seen on any stomach, be it empty, full or at any stage in between.

"Am I under arrest?" he asked, hand straying nonchalantly to a pocket.

"Only if you don't come with us," said Nobby, fishing behind his ear for a dreadful cigarette.

"Right," said the Doctor. "Fair enough. Can't argue with that. Okay. Um. Lead the way, gentlemen."

Sergeant Colon gave him a Look so old-fashioned that it was starting to grow stalactites.

"Yeah, right," he said, at length, looking the Doctor up and down in a leisurely manner. "Tell you what. Why don't _you_ lead the way, sir, and the Corporal and me'll just sort of watch your back, how about that?"

* * *

Donna peered around the corner of the street; the fog was thickening, but she could make out the scene well enough. She watched the coppers lead the Doctor away.

"Oh, God," she muttered.

This expression found some extra impetus a few seconds later when she felt a tug on the hem of her dress. She looked down in vague horror at Arthur's half-moon grin, which was at this point threatening to remove the top of his head.

"Soooo," he said, the light of speculation twinkling in his eye, "now that we've a wee bitty time to ourselves, how's about yez and I..."

"No," said Donna, firmly. Arthur looked pained.

"Yez didn't know whut I wuz gonna say," he said, reproachfully.

"Bet I bloody well _did_," Donna told him, scowling, then looked up and stared into the fog again. She had completely lost sight of the Doctor and his escort. "We've got to get him back," she said, glaring down at the gnome.

"Why?" asked Arthur, seeming honestly bewildered.

"Because if you don't help me," said Donna, "I'll stamp on you."

The gnome broadcast an air of being thoroughly unimpressed.

"An' supposin' I _do_?" he asked. The speculative light was back with reinforcements, including cavalry and several siege engines. Donna faced it down for several long seconds before sighing heavily and surrendering.

"If you do," she said, wearily, "I'll give you a kiss. Okay?"

"_Wha-hey!_"


	4. Chapter 4

Despite the situation, the Doctor couldn't help grinning.

He watched Sam Vimes lean back in his chair and lace his fingers across his stomach. As small gestures went, it was a surprisingly eloquent one. It said: _It's almost midnight. Right now, by rights, I should be at home, sleeping off a hefty meal in front of the fire. Instead, I'm stuck in my office dealing with you. In a minute, you're going to tell me a story, and mister, if you can tell me one I haven't heard six hundred and thirty nine times before, I may be inclined to be charitable and not charge you with whatever I can think of and then some._

"Commander Vimes," said the Doctor, happily. "I can't _believe_ it."

To give him his due, Vimes covered his confusion well.

"Yes," he said, idly, "I woke up this morning thinking the exact same thing."

"This is _brilliant!_"

"Well, it's a novel start, I'll give you that. Anyway," Vimes went on, giving every impression of consulting a sheet of paper on his blotter, "I'm told you were apprehended while committing an assault. Is that right?"

The Doctor opened his mouth to deny it...then paused, reeled his tongue back in and decided to try a lateral approach instead. From what he knew of Sam Vimes's character, he'd get points for style as long as he was good enough and didn't - technically - lie.

"I'm afraid so," he said. "Guilty as charged. I was viciously attacking someone's boot with my ribs."

Vimes's mouth didn't so much as twitch - nevertheless, there seemed to be some small amusement registering in the carefully guarded space behind his eyes. The Doctor knew better than to let his defences down just yet, however.

"I'm also told," Vimes was saying, "that this someone was one Wee Mad Arthur, freelance ratcatcher?"

The Doctor simply nodded. Vimes's expression altered subtly, and became suffused with a species of horrified admiration for a second or two.

"Okay," he said, eventually, "so that's a charge of Attempted Suicide on the slate as well." Vimes broke off, fished in his pocket and pulled out a cigar. He struck a match on the underside of his desk and lit it, puffing slowly, waiting until the tip was well alight before returning to the conversation.

"Here's the thing," he said, evenly. "My sergeant reports that you've no identification and no visible means of support. Time was, in this city, those were both capital crimes. Now _me_, I'm not overly inclined to leap to conclusions, if only because it's too much like hard work, which is rather fortunate for you, eh? So," he finished, and loosed an elegant smoke ring, "who are you?"

The Doctor was already reaching for his inside pocket. Vimes made no overt move, and didn't even take his cigar out of his mouth, but the Doctor had enough sense to know that a street-fighting man like Vimes wouldn't need much in the way of reaction time should someone pull a knife on him. Nevertheless, he acted with care, withdrew the psychic paper and held it out for inspection.

"Captain John Smith, Cable Street Particulars," he said. "I'm sorry to involve your men, Commander, but I'm on a classified case. Can't discuss the details, I'm afraid."

Vimes was, all at once, a study in stone. After long moments, he sighed deeply.

"You know," he said at last, "I must be looking younger every day."

"I'm sorry?" said the Doctor, thoroughly lost.

"You seem to be under the impression that I was born yesterday," Vimes explained. He still hadn't moved a single muscle. A column of ash fell from the end of the cigar and plopped noiselessly onto the floor. "Firstly, I know the Particulars, and you're not one of 'em. Secondly, that's a blank piece of paper."

The room was very suddenly filled with embarrassment; great pink clouds of the stuff. The Doctor wilted, withdrew his arm and turned the wallet around. The psychic paper was, indeed, blank.

"It doesn't work here," he muttered.

"What doesn't?" said Vimes, not sharply, but with an edge that hinted at the possibility of future sharpness.

"Never mind."

"Right, then. Corporal?" This was to the door, which swung back after a decent interval; the kind of interval, in fact, that contrives to suggest that the person now entering has definitely not been listening at the door. Absolutely not. In no way, shape or form. Who, _me_?

Nobby sidled into the room. It takes a special kind of skill to sidle whilst walking _forwards_, but Nobby was supernaturally gifted in that respect.

"Yessir?" he said, hopping gently from foot to foot. Many people, meeting Nobby for the first time, tended to assume that he had some sort of chronic bladder problem.

"Escort Mr..._Smith_ to the cells, and then write your report, will you?" This was, of course, well-established code for 'Tell Sergeant Angua what happened and get _her_ to write your report, Nobby, because if I see one more fractured clause or woefully abused apostrophe I will not be responsible for my actions'. Nobby simply nodded and jerked his head at the Doctor.

"Come on, sir," he sniffed. The Doctor, sensing an immediate lack of options, accompanied him downstairs.

* * *

Donna paused halfway up the steps of the watch house, moved out of the glare of the gaslight and adjusted her neckline, tugging it down with one finger to be sure of maximum exposure. She fluffed out her hair and ran her tongue over her teeth, and was just about to push open the door when she spotted Arthur, mugging at her from behind a lamp-post.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Enjoyin' tha view," he leered. Donna planted both hands on her hips and glared hard enough to scorch holes in sheet steel.

"I _said_ go round the back and create a diversion," she said. "I'll go in the front and try to charm the pants off of 'em. Okay?" She continued to glare until Arthur backed away, turned and ran into a foetid alley. Only when she'd heard the tiny footfalls die away did she square her shoulders and push open the door.

The front office was rather gloomy and all but deserted; Donna took one quick look around to get her bearings, and then sashayed up to the nearest authority figure behind the desk. A redhead, she couldn't help noticing. He turned around at the staccato click of heels and smiled brightly and politely.

"Excuse me, officer," she began, and then looked him up and down and inexplicably lost control of her voice. She could almost feel her mascara melting beneath the force of the sudden hot flush.

"Oh, blimey..._woof_..."


	5. Chapter 5

Donna couldn't remember the last time she'd blushed this hard, although one of the top contenders would have to be the time when Justin Collins had asked to see her knickers in the second year. She goggled at the copper in front of her; six foot plus of freshly scrubbed muscle in captain's stripes, leather and painfully shiny armour.

"Can I help you, miss?" said Carrot.

"I'd love to," said Donna, distractedly. Inside her head, her common sense ducked into a cupboard, wedged a chair under the door handle to keep out the large pink army of harp-wielding cherubs and pressed the panic button. She coughed and tried again.

"I, er..." _Focus, Donna,_ _focus_... "You've arrested a friend of mine. Can I see him?"

Carrot straightened up. Donna heard the faintest creak of well-oiled leather, and had to drag her slavering libido back on its leash.

In the lee of this, she caught the sound of a soft growl. She jerked her head up and scanned the room, but the only other sign of life was a young blonde woman on the other side of the office, head down, clearly absorbed in some paperwork.

"I'm afraid not, miss," Carrot was saying, "although I'm sure the Commander will be happy to speak to you."

"_Look_," said Donna, resisting the urge to ask him what time he got off duty, "I'm a lawyer, and I insist you let me see my client right now." She rooted in her pocket, pulled out her card wallet and waved it in front of Carrot's eyes at blurring speed. He frowned.

"What's an Oyster card?" he asked her, puzzled. Donna subsided. In the brief pause she heard another tiny growl, and half turned. There was still nobody else in sight but the blonde woman, who remained just as engrossed in her writing.

Deciding on all the evidence that her one attempt subterfuge had failed miserably, Donna decided to return to the womanly wiles instead.

"Captain," she said, huskily, sidling an inch closer and deploying her cleavage, "Can we discuss this somewhere more private?"

She paused.

"Is there a dog in here?" she asked.

* * *

The Doctor lay back and tried to get as comfortable as he could, which was about as comfortable as anyone was going to get while lying on a wooden bunk apparently made entirely out of splinters. He sighed gnomically, gazed up at the low ceiling of the cell and studied the graffiti. After a while, he gave up on correcting the spelling and the anatomy and flopped over onto his side. This was scarcely an improvement in the view; he caught sight - and, more importantly, _smell_ - of the slop bucket, and turned a significant shade of pale green.

To be fair, it wasn't the worst part of his incarceration. The watch house cells were of the open and friendly variety that featured bars between cells as well as on the door, and the Doctor wasn't entirely alone in his predicament. There was a happy drunk in the adjoining cell who had, in the space of the last fifteen minutes, tested out several of his bodily functions to great effect, and looked likely to test out the rest at some point.

It wouldn't be so bad, the Doctor mused, if he'd actually managed to hit the bucket with any of it. It was quite a large bucket. There really was no excuse. He shuffled around on the bench a little and tried to remember not to put his feet down if he could possibly help it; one of the other things that the drunk had mostly missed was the floor of his _own_ cell.

Aside from the distinctly utilitarian accommodation, he'd not been badly treated. Corporal Nobbs had brought him a cup of tea and a bun, although in deference to the fact that the food had been within three feet of...well..._Nobby_, he'd decided against eating it.

There was also the matter of the sonic screwdriver which, against all expectation, he had been allowed to keep about his person. It wasn't what he'd have expected from any reasonable office of the law, although the introduction of Sam Vimes into the equation probably muddied the waters somewhat. He could usually be relied upon to do the unexpected. The Doctor patted his pocket thoughtfully, and wondered what was expected of _him_.

"Heyup, ye scunner!" said a sudden voice, in what it probably thought was a conspiratorial whisper; in fact, all it went to prove was that there are some people whose whispers would make an Austrian yodelling champion sound like a harvest mouse with laryngitis. The Doctor twisted his head around and up to the tiny barred window near the ceiling of his cell.

"Arthur?" he said, somewhat redundantly. The gnome flashed him a very small obscene gesture, which the Doctor tried not to take personally. There was every chance that this was what passed for an amicable greeting in Arthur's worldview.

"Listen up," said Arthur, still in the same not-very-sotto voce. "Me'n ye lady friend is goin' tae get yez oot o' here. Just you bide there. I'm gunna create a diversion."

The Doctor froze. Even his hair seized up. He was well aware that in the form of Wee Mad Arthur, he was dealing with someone whose idea of a proportionate response to a spilled pint was to attempt to kneecap the nearest five bystanders and then kick the pub down. What kind of a diversion he was planning was anybody's guess.

"Er, Arthur?" said the Doctor, and immediately found himself at a loss as to how to finish the question. He had a sneaking suspicion that the slightest hint of what seemed like ingratitude would result in the kind of bodily pain beyond the reach of mere aspirin; on the other hand, it would be wise to be forewarned.

"Yeah?" said Arthur, his eyebrows challenging.

"I was wondering what you were going to, er...do?"

Arthur tapped the side of his nose.

"Never yez mind," he said. "Yez in safe hands. I promised the lassie I'd get ye oot o' the clankie, and I'm a man o' me word."

The Doctor gave up.

"Okay," he said, weakly. "Right. Good job. Thanks for your help."

Arthur spat noisily, winked and vanished from the window ledge, while in the next cell, the drunk started to sing. The Doctor couldn't quite make out the words, although he had an idea that this was probably just as well. He sat up and tried his best not to worry about anything.

This proved to be extraordinarily difficult.


	6. Chapter 6

The Doctor winced as the door to the cell block banged back on it hinges and Nobby poked his head into the corridor. He winked - a truly dreadful sight, mused the Doctor; Nobby's face at rest was bad enough, but there were several expressions guaranteed to add their own little arpeggios of horror, and that was one of them - and coughed horribly for a second.

"Got you some better company, mister," he said, and beckoned Donna into the cell block.

Her face was waxen, and this was not without due cause. It was fairly typical of any woman who'd had to spend more than ten seconds in close proximity to Nobby.

It wasn't his body odour, which was not so much malodorous as curiously persistent. It wasn't that he leered; Nobby had long ago come to terms with his chances regarding the opposite sex, and had concluded that if the only bodily contact he was ever likely to achieve was a healthy slap in the face, he'd just as soon not bother.

It wasn't even that he was particularly ugly; there were undoubtedly one or two works by Picasso that looked worse, although it would, admittedly, be a close call. It was merely that Nobby broadcast the kind of nameless signal that bypassed all conscious thought and pulled the female hackles up via the hindbrain.

He escorted Donna to the next cell, seemingly oblivious of the way she moved at an angle to remove all possibility of his hands coming into contact with any part of her anatomy whatsoever, and locked the door behind her. The Doctor stared from Nobby to Donna and back again as if he were watching Wimbledon on fast-forward.

"Um?" he said, desperately trying to punctuate what seemed, all at once, to be an unnaturally long silence. Donna glowered at him through the intervening bars, folded her arms tightly and said nothing at all.

"Want a cuppa, Miss?" asked Nobby.

"No, thank you," said Donna, somewhat faster than she'd intended to.

"Suit yourself," said Nobby, suddenly looking so dejected that the Doctor, without looking down, stretched out a foot and nudged his untouched tea out of sight beneath the bunk.

When Nobby had left, the Doctor turned around into a five-hundred megawatt glare.

"This is all your fault," said Donna. The Doctor bridled.

"How?"

"_It just is, all right_?"

He knew better than to argue. The Doctor had travelled with enough human women to be well aware of the futility of debate in the face of such blindingly logical statements. It was probably only a matter of time before he was facing the 'Does my bum look big in this?' test, and then it would be all over bar the shouting and his desperately trying to find a frying pan-proof hat.

"Okay," he said, wearily, "what are you doing here?"

For a second, Donna looked as if she were about to scream at him, and then she subsided onto the bunk.

"Well, first of all I tried to pretend I was your lawyer..."

"Ah?" said the Doctor, combining the minimum of wordage with the maximum of incredulity.

"That didn't work, so I tried to seduce that Captain Carrot..."

"Oh?" said the Doctor, trying not to picture it for fear of grinning and getting something thrown at him.

"And then I was taken to the Commander, who seemed a bit upset with me for some reason, and here I am."

Perfect silence reigned for several seconds, and was only broken when the drunk in the other cell turned over and said "Whhhstfgl," before commencing to snore loudly enough to make the floor buzz. Then the Doctor leaned his forehead against the bars and started to laugh, only stopping when Donna's hand strayed meaningfully towards the handle of the slop bucket.

The door of the cell block inched back with a soft squeal, and they both turned as a large golden dog trotted down the aisle and sat down, gazing placidly at the prisoners. Donna glanced sideways at the Doctor for a second, saw nothing of apparent interest in his expression and crouched down.

"Here, boy," she said, snapping her fingers through the bars.

"Girl," said the Doctor flatly. Donna craned her neck up to study him again, but his face was just as opaque. She turned back to the dog.

"Who's a _good_ girl, then?" she hazarded, although some of the certainty had leaked out of her voice. The dog, for its part, continued to maintain a creditable impersonation of a statue, although as the Doctor watched, its lip peeled back ever so slightly in what he could only describe as a smile.

Donna rocked back on her heels and stood up, grasping the bars and feeling immensely foolish all of a sudden. The dog tilted its head fractionally, got to its feet and headed back the way it had come.

"Okay," said Donna eventually, with the air of someone hanging onto their patience with one last fingernail, and a brittle one at that, "I suppose you know what that was all about?"

"I do, as a matter of fact," said the Doctor cheerfully, "but if you're going to be sarcastic I'm not going to..._okay, okay_," he said hurriedly; Donna had bent and hefted the slop bucket at him. "That's Sergeant Angua, Carrot's girlfriend. She's not a dog. It's a full moon tonight, if you catch my drift?"

Donna started to say something, but something went 'ping' in her brain as a connection was formed, and she snapped her mouth shut again just as quickly.

"I see," she said, grimly.

The Doctor twitched reflexively as something prodded him in the ankle, and he jerked his gaze down into the face of Wee Mad Arthur. The gnome was grinning just a little too widely for comfort.

"Heyup, ye lang streak o' widdlin'," he said, conversationally. "I'm aboot distractin' yon coppers. So are yez gunna offski now?"

"Good plan, _nice_ plan, Arthur," said the Doctor carefully, all too aware of how close Arthur's forehead was to his vulnerable shin, "but we're a little bit locked in here, you see?"

"What's that smell?" said Donna.

"It's not me," said the Doctor reflexively, and then inhaled the air gently. There was indeed a smell. A very depressingly familiar smell. He looked back down at Arthur, and realised that he'd seen that expression before. It was the exact same expression worn by a helpful little boy who is about tell his doting parents that he's just washed the car. With gravel.

"Arthur," said the Doctor, slowly, "just what _is_ this diversion of yours?"

The gnome's grin was now approaching the rictus event horizon.

"Ach, weel," he said, "t'was aboot that that I wuz gannin' tae talk to yez..." Just then, Donna squeaked, and the Doctor swung around to see what she was looking at.

The floor of the cell block was ankle deep in thick black smoke.


	7. Chapter 7

"_You set fire to the Watch house_?"

Arthur was backing away, which must have been a very novel experience for him.

"Aye," he said, still in retreat. "I thought with yon coppers oot 'o the way, yez could..."

"Could what?" asked the Doctor, venomously. "Burn to death in peace?"

Arthur had, meanwhile, backed right through the bars and into Donna's cell. He glanced up at her and smiled nervously, but there was no help there. Her eyes narrowed.

"Okay," said the Doctor, wallowing through an angry silence as thick as congealed treacle, "we'd better try the locks." He drew out the sonic screwdriver and pressed the tip against the heavy black lock frame, playing a narrow pulse of blue light over the metal. There were several answering crackles from the mechanism, but that was all. Other than this, there was no response.

"Oh," said the Doctor, his arm sagging as realisation dawned. "Er. I'm afraid this is thunderbolt iron. It's completely impervious to magic and also to...er...vibrations of any kind. No wonder they let me keep the screwdriver," he added, bitterly.

AHEM.

There was no need to turn around, really, thought the Doctor, although he did so anyway and levelled a finger at Death. He was rather proud of the fact that his hand was only shaking very, very slightly.

"You keep away from me," he said, with as much menace as he could muster. "I know for a fact I've got three regenerations left, okay?"

WRONG, said Death, pulled a lifetimer out of his robes and brandished it triumphantly. There was, indeed, no sand left in the top bulb. Nevertheless, a minor detail caught the Doctor's eye, and he scowled.

"That isn't mine," he said. "You've put a sticker over the name and written 'Doctor' on it."

APRIL FOOL, said Death, and pulled out a red plastic nose and put it on; or, at least, tried to do so. Due to certain facial deficiencies, the nose simply dropped onto the floor. Death and the Doctor stared down at it for several long, reflective seconds.

"_It's not April_!" said the Doctor, with an option on hysteria.

OCTOBER FOOL?

"Will you go away now, please?"

I'M SORRY, said Death, with dignity. I AM TRYING TO WORK ON MY SENSE OF HUMOUR.

"Work harder," said the Doctor, teeth gritted.

Death sighed pointedly and faded into empty space, and time snapped back into shape once more. For a Time Lord, this was rather an uncomfortable process, not unlike having one's ears syringed. The added shock of coming back to the increasingly smoky air of the cell was an unpleasant bonus.

He was just in time to see Arthur scramble up the bars of Donna's cell and start to hammer the lock with his head. This was not the most enjoyable sight; after a few seconds, the Doctor felt the beginnings of a sympathetic headache. Arthur, however, didn't seem too bothered about concussion. He battered the lock to the accompaniment of a high-speed clanging noise that got on all nerves present, and only stopped when it became apparent that he was getting nowhere.

"Have you two quite finished?" asked Donna, tartly. They both turned to gape at her.

"If you'd stopped and had a good look," she said, rolling up her sleeves and grabbing the crossbar of the door in both hands, "you'd have seen how easy it is."

With this, she heaved upward on the door, which rose a few inches. She lifted it off the hinges and shoved, hefting the door out into the corridor. It dropped to the flagstones with an almighty crash. When the echoes had died away, she turned to the Doctor and Arthur and raised a very meaningful eyebrow.

"Shall we be going?" she asked.

The gas lamps had failed, and the way out was so thick with smoke that they had to hang onto one another to avoid getting separated; Donna grabbed a handful of the Doctor's jacket, while Arthur hitched a ride on her shoe. As they reached the front desk, however, the Doctor pulled up sharp and slapped a hand to his forehead.

"I've got to go back," he said, urgently. "You two get outside."

"But you..." said Donna.

"Don't argue," he insisted. "I'll be right back. Okay?"

Without waiting for confirmation, he dived back through the murky doorway, jacket pulled up over his face to mitigate the worst of the smoke. Donna yelped, albeit belatedly, glanced down at Arthur helplessly and then stumbled towards the front door.

She had just enough time to drag a large, gasping breath of clean air before someone threw a bucket of extremely cold water over her. Through ears full of tidal roaring, she heard the sound of the bucket being dropped onto the cobblestones, and then a massive, red-eyed _thing_ loomed up in front of her and grabbed her around the waist.

Donna had been carried halfway down the steps before she remembered to scream, but when she did, it came out like a foghorn. She clawed at the restraining arm, but all that this achieved was to break two of her fingernails; the flesh was as hard as rock. She was just summoning the breath for a repeat performance when the creature deposited her on the cobbles and lumbered away, clanking, into the red-lit gloom.

"What...the..." she started to ask, and then looked up into a face. It was an earthenware face, with simmering scarlet eyes and an expression of terminal gravitas. She considered running away, but then looked down a little further and checked herself. It was just possible that a golem in a blue flowery dress wasn't quite as scary as all that.

"I Apologise For My Colleague's Actions," said the golem, solemnly. "He Is A Male Oppressor, And Sees Females As Weak And Helpless And In Need Of Rescue."

Donna looked back over her shoulder; the front door of the Watch house was boiling with smoke and steam and was on the verge of collapse; the other golem had probably saved her life.

"It's, um, okay," she said, eventually. "I don't mind, really."

While the golem's features were necessarily immobile, its face somehow managed to radiate copious amounts of disapproval. Donna battled down a laugh.

"Here," it said, reaching into a pocket, "I Have A Leaflet."

The urge to burst out laughing grew even stronger as Donna studied the proffered papers. She couldn't read the writing on it, which seemed to her to resemble Hebrew, but there was a woodcut on the front of a (presumably) female golem in overalls, her red clay fist raised in sisterly pride.

"Thanks very much," said Donna, glancing back up, but the golem was gone.

Just then, there was a crash from the burning building; she stared as the doorway collapsed in a welter of sparks. By the sudden flare of light, however, she could see the Doctor staggering down the front steps with a slumped figure over his shoulder. It was the drunk from the other cell.

"Just...in time," gasped the Doctor, sauntering over to her, his face flushed and streaked with soot. "I think he's going to be all right. He..."

He was interrupted by a noise. It was quite a small noise, as noises went, and would have gone entirely unnoticed against the backdrop of crackling timber and thumping golem footsteps were it not for its horribly ominous carrying quality.

Donna couldn't think what to say. She gazed at the Doctor's smile. His frozen, aghast smile. They regarded one another for an ice age or two in complete silence.

"He's just been sick down my back, hasn't he?" said the Doctor.

"Yes," said Donna.


	8. Chapter 8

Eventually, they manhandled the gently smiling drunk into a sitting position against the fountain. Donna stood back, looked at her palms in horror and then turned and wiped them on the Doctor's sleeve.

"Hey! Do you mind?" he yelped, shying away.

"Well, you've got it all over you _anyway_," said Donna, not unreasonably. "What's a bit more?"

The Doctor couldn't come up with an adequate retort to this, so he paced around the fountain and watched the conflagration carefully. A fresh platoon of golems thundered through the square, each one carrying two enormous buckets of water. Several had obviously come straight from their jobs; he spotted one in the blue and gold flashing of the Post Office, and another dressed as a clown; which, mused the Doctor, must have made for some rather bizarre children's parties lately.

There was also one with a live chicken strapped to its arm. He struggled not to speculate.

Once the phalanx had crashed past, he peered across the square at the collected members of the Night Watch, clustered on a corner well out of the way of the bucket chain. Angua was sitting well back on her haunches and sniffing vociferously at the air. The Doctor decided that this did not bode well, especially when the smoke started to clear. He turned and scuttled back to Donna.

"I suggest a tactical withdrawal," he said, softly, "before Ankh-Morpork's finest come looking for their missing detainees."

Donna, who had been studying the snoozing man, jerked her gaze up.

"What?" she said. "We can't just leave him here like this!"

"What do you suggest we do," asked the Doctor, decorating each word with sarcasm, "leave a note saying, 'Here's your drunk back, thanks for the lend'?"

Donna's eyebrows dropped.

"I just meant that we should let them know we're all okay," she hissed back.

Another lot of golems thumped and sloshed past the fountain. The Doctor ducked, but not before noticing that one of them was carrying an inordinately large cucumber. Either it worked in the vegetable market, or...he stamped so heavily on the ensuing thought that he stubbed a mental toe. Donna, meanwhile, was still scowling at him.

"They'll know that when they don't find three crispy fried people in the cells, all right?" said the Doctor, now beyond irritated and into exasperated. "I love your sense of civic duty, Donna. I really, honestly do. But they do have _other_ Watch houses with _other _cells."

"Fwahaaaaaammmm," muttered the little man, mid-snore.

"You stay out of this," said the Doctor, absently. "Anyway, coming?"

Donna shrugged, and traipsed after him.

They were at the head of the bridge when she grabbed the Doctor's arm.

"Where's Arthur?" she asked, concerned, looking back the way they'd come.

"I thought he was with you?"

"He was," said Donna. "I lost him by the front desk, and then things got a bit complicated. I thought he'd followed _you_."

The Doctor shrugged.

"Believe me, he can take care of himself," he said, and headed off down the bridge, shoulders hunched. Donna frowned at his back and planted her hands on her hips.

"We should make sure he's all right!" she shouted.

"He is," said the Doctor, without turning around. Donna trotted after him, suddenly angrier than she'd been in quite some time. Well, certainly within the last five minutes, anyway, she amended.

She caught up with the Doctor at the last statue, but he had already come to a grinding halt. Donna peered around his side to see what was going on.

Vimes was leaning up against the door of the TARDIS, arms folded, cigar stub tucked into the corner of his mouth. After a few seconds, he looked up at them as if he'd only just realised they were there, plucked the cigar, dropped it and ground it out beneath his boot heel.

"Evening," he said, conversationally, and fell silent again. The Doctor tried to see if Vimes was smiling, but that face gave _nothing_ away. Vimes could make the average golem look like the Laughing Cavalier when he wanted to.

"Hello, Commander," he replied, trying to keep up in the non-committal stakes.

"Is this yours?" asked Vimes.

"Yes, it is,"

"Well, it's illegally parked," Vimes continued, "but here's what. I don't _want_ to know who you two clowns are. I don't _want_ to know what this or how you got it here. My Watch house is charcoal and considering that I have to be the one to explain to His Lordship how that happened, I think my life is complicated enough for one night.

"In fact," he went on, stepping away from the TARDIS and standing nose to nose with the Doctor, "all I _do_ want to know is that you won't set one bloody foot in this city ever again."

The Doctor, quite mesmerised, hadn't drawn breath throughout this whole speech. Finally, he inhaled deeply, and grinned.

"I won't," he said, cheerfully. Only Donna could see that he had his fingers crossed behind his back; she snorted out a very soft laugh, which didn't seem to be entirely lost on Vimes. However, he merely looked her up and down and said nothing.

"Off you go, then," he said, at length, and trudged off into the gloom without a backward glance. They watched him until he was out of sight.

As soon as the Doctor had closed the door behind them and started the engine, Donna pulled at a strand of her hair and sniffed it for a second.

"Ugh," she said, grimacing. "Bags I'm first in the shower."

"Oh no you don't," the Doctor retorted. "Me first."

"I stink of smoke!"

"_I'm covered in sick_!"

"Okay," said Donna, after a long, disgusted pause to examine his suit jacket. "You win."

Just then, she heard a familiar voice from somewhere close by.

"I cannae help recallin'," it said, lazily, "talk o' a kiss?"

Donna froze solid. For a moment, only her eyes were capable of any movement at all; they swivelled madly from side to side. Arthur was nowhere to be seen. Finally, as a dreadful, awful certainty seeped into her brain, she tilted her head back on muscles that seemed to squeak.

The gnome leapt.


End file.
